THE HANDKERCHIEF
“Greg’s snoring again,” thought Emily irritably. She pushed her husband’s arm off her and turned onto her side. Peering at her mobile, she noted it was already past two in the morning.
“That’s it, no more sleep for me,” Emily grumbled to herself. “And I’ve got work tomorrow—I’ll be nodding off all day. Though I don’t have to be up early, since I’m on the late shift, still.” She wasn’t twenty anymore, back when she could dance all night and wake fresh as a daisy. Nor was she in those moonlit dating days, when she’d return home too giddy to sleep, replaying every word they’d said—only to remember nothing but a few scattered lines, grinning like a fool. Greg’s face, so close and dear, flickered like an old film reel—his eyes grey and kind, clear as day.
Meanwhile, Greg himself let out another thunderous snore, entirely unbothered, blissfully asleep beside her.
“What am I supposed to do?” Emily wondered. “Maybe we should start sleeping in separate rooms.”
With nothing else to occupy her, she began dredging up old grievances and inventing new ones. The pile of grievances felt big enough to fill a freight train and still spill over into a shopping trolley from Tesco. What was driving her tonight? Resentment? Frustration? Disappointment? Who could say?
“The kids are grown. Just the two of us left. Everything’s fine, really—so why does it feel wrong?” The thought buzzed in her head like a blunt drill, boring holes no broom could sweep away.
In the dark, she studied her sleeping husband. Oblivious, he breathed softly under her critical gaze as she mentally catalogued his flaws—multiplying them by two, forgetting to divide by zero. Though somewhere, a buried school lesson whispered you couldn’t divide by zero at all. But it was easier to spot faults in others, wasn’t it?
“Gone all grey, hasn’t he? Put on weight, too. Wrinkles like rivers on a map carve his forehead, betraying age and shared hardships. And to think what a looker he used to be.”
“Now he doesn’t even greet me properly when I come home—no more coats taken, no kisses. Doesn’t ask how my day was. And when he drinks tea, that awful slurping! He hides his dirty clothes, but I fish them out the moment he’s asleep and stuff them straight in the wash. Fresh clothes laid out by morning, and still he complains—‘I’ve not even broken these shirts in yet! Give me back my old ones.’”
Oh, he’d hurt her before, and badly. They’d weathered rough patches, fought and made up. And his family! They’d never thought her good enough for Greg. Even at their wedding, they’d hugged *him*, handed *him* flowers, acted like she was just a prop. Once, they’d even counted her dresses and boots, calling her wasteful! Never mind she’d always worked, owned barely more than essentials—most of it bargain-bin or homemade by her mate from magazine patterns. Greg never stood up for her, just said, “Ignore them, love. They’re jealous. Rise above it.”
But the worst memory came flooding back—their daughter, Lottie, falling seriously ill. Hospitals, tests, the awful wait for a diagnosis. One scan required a trip to London. Emily hadn’t slept, terrified of bad news—while Greg stayed silent. He didn’t hold her, didn’t say, “It’ll be alright.” They’d drifted then, feeling worlds apart.
Yet when it was over, they’d wept together, apologising, forgiving.
“And how he *used* to court me! The way we met—I was trudging down some unfamiliar street, bawling my eyes out, heavens pouring with me. No umbrella, soaked to the bone, dress clinging like a straitjacket. And the misery!
University exams, summer term. Girls in class had planned to buy gifts for the professors—flowers, chocolates, sandwiches. Five quid each. I didn’t have it. Mum flat-out refused, calling it toadying, told me to just study harder. As if I hadn’t already. My scholarship—top marks, mind—went straight to Mum, who doled out pocket money like a miser. ‘Live at home, bus pass sorted, what more d’you need?’
So there I was, drenched, fuming at the world, two quid and thirty-five pence rattling in my pocket. Three meals skipped for that thirty-five pence. Nan couldn’t help till next week’s pension. Nobody to borrow from—mates as skint as me.
Then, above my hopeless head, an umbrella opened—posh black thing, wooden handle.
‘Miss? You shouldn’t be wandering alone this late, especially without an umbrella.’ A man’s voice.
‘Mind your business!’ I snapped.
‘Only wanted to offer my handkerchief. Dry your tears?’
Greg—though I didn’t know his name then—pulled out a huge white square, blue checks. Still have it, tucked in our dresser. Smelled of his cologne—maybe that’s what reeled me in.
Took it home, washed it, kept it like a relic.
‘How’d he even *see* me crying? Rain was coming down in buckets.’
‘I felt it,’ Greg told me later. ‘Couldn’t leave a pretty girl weeping in the rain.’
He asked my name—‘Emily’—and invited me to a nearby café. ‘Hot tea, or coffee if you’d rather. Warm up, dry off, tell me what’s troubling you. You’re safe with me.’
I told him *everything*. Me, usually so guarded! He listened, walked me home, then pressed a fiver into my hand.
‘Take it. Can’t have someone like you crying over money.’
A week later, Nan gave me the cash. Beaming, I handed it back in the park.
Greg refused. ‘A man’s job is to be needed. *I* should thank *you* for letting me help.’
Never spoke of it again.
Dawn crept in. Emily lay awake, replaying their life—good bits, bad bits, but never once left to fend for herself. He’d shouldered his burdens and hers without complaint.
They’d buried loved ones, clung together like frightened hamsters. Now the kids were married, the nest empty—no wonder she fretted nights, wondering how they’d cope without her.
“But really, what am I moaning about? Mirror’d tell its own story—wrinkles, extra stone, creaky fingers! No call for this nonsense. So he snores? *Ask* him to roll over.”
Just then, Greg turned in his sleep, pulled her close like treasured loot, kissed the back of her head. And just like that, the weight lifted.
Wasn’t that what mattered? Being loved, cared for—problems carried without a word, still called ‘my little girl’ at fifty, tears dried on his handkerchief, rocked like a child.
Emily woke at ten, wandered to the kitchen.
“Finally up, sleepyhead?” Greg kissed her. “You woke *me* around six—purring like Whiskers on my arm.”
“You mean I was *snoring*?”
“Well. Let’s say breathing loudly. You didn’t know?”
Emily flushed. “No.”
Funny, how quick we are to fault others, blind to our own logs in the eye.
Perhaps we should study our reflections harder.
And remember—most troubles can be sorted under an umbrella.
